Then a satchel washes onto shore.
Though you half-recognize the slumped humanoid satchel from some or other distantrecent past, it’s not the familiarity that quickens your blood, that upsets your bowels. It’s the cosmic shift: something new. Finally.
You approach warily and touch your fingers tentatively to its exterior. The fabric is dripping, the drawstring almost rotted through. Patience. Lift it gently, set the satchel near the fire to dry, but not too close: elevate it atop two stones, let the air circulate. Sit back, legs crossed, considering. What does it mean, you start to think, but then you catch yourself–enough with thinking, with meaning. Just … be.
As if on cue, storms rumble in the south, and clouds spread like a spill over the lid of the ocean. Tonight the stars are again gone. You munch fish eyes for dessert, and over the firelight, you continue to eye the satchel. In the middle of night, unable to sleep, you jump from your shelter, unable to wait any longer. You tear the satchel open, you need to see what it is, to listen to this message from beyond.
You reach your hand in and feel, wrapped in careful cloth, a round object with a handled end. Your arm trembles as you lift the wrappings away, as the sandy shore begins to patter with rain.
Of all damn things. A mirror.
Dare you turn the mirror toward you … ?
Or do you understandably hate symbolithematic moments and just chuck the mirror back into the sea?
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